Bleachers
by Katt9966
Summary: A story which takes place when Dutch is 14. It's set before the events on the tape Shane finds in my story "Video"


Title: -Bleachers.

Author: - Katt.

E-mail: - kattanon@hotmail.com

Rating - R.

Warning: - Contains reference to child abuse. 

Feedback: - Like it or loathe it let me know.

Archive: - I'd be honoured just let me know. Archived at the Shield Fanfiction Archive.

Disclaimer: - I don't own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX.

Authors Notes: - This is a set when Dutch is 14 just before the events in the video tape found by Shane in my story "Video".

This is dedicated to Whipper, and written especially for her. It's intended as a thank you for all the fabulous Dutch-angst she's supplied me with, and for being the webmistress at the Shield Fanfiction Archive. All your hard work is greatly appreciated. Mostly though I wrote it because she's my friend and she isn't feeling very well. So Whipper – Get Well Soon J .

Bleachers.

Holland pulled his knees closer to his chest and shivered. It would be getting dark soon, and although it was May and the days were turning warmer the nights still had a chill from the cold air that rolled down from the mountains. He didn't have his jacket with him, and his jeans and tee shirt weren't doing much to keep him warm. Goose flesh stood out on his exposed arms. He knew he'd have to accept defeat soon, accept the inevitable, and go home to face him. Not yet though, he thought, just another half an hour hiding out here under the bleachers beside the school athletics track, and then he'd go home.

The reason he didn't want to go home was sitting in an innocent brown envelope in his backpack. Today was report card day, and he knew his wasn't good enough. He'd tried; he'd really tried. He'd stayed up late into the night revising, knowing he had to get an A, it was expected and his father didn't tolerate failure. So he'd worked hard trying to understand quadratic equations, algebra and trigonometry, knowing he had to ace his maths exam. The morning of the exam he'd been too nervous to eat, and had spent most of the time before he'd had to enter the exam room dry heaving in the toilet. However, he'd thought he'd done it. He'd come out of that exam two hours later and thought all his hard work had paid off, and by some miracle he'd gotten his A. Then just before school had finished today they'd been given their report cards to bring home. Once outside he'd stolen a peek at his. His eyes had frantically scanned down the list of subjects and results, skipping over the list of red, ink A's for the other subjects until he reached the all important maths result. Holland had felt his stomach clench as he'd stared at the result. All his hard work had been for nothing, there staring up at him was a B. Looking across at the percentage mark he realized bitterly that he'd missed out on the coveted and necessary A by a lousy 3%. Just 3% and now he was too afraid to go home. He supposed he could pretend not to have his report card, but he knew his father would know. He always knew everything. Holland could never hide anything from him. He knew his father would punish him, he'd made that quite clear already. God, he'd be in enough trouble now for being late home, let alone for being a failure, for letting his father down. Despite this he still didn't move.

Perhaps he should run away he thought, just take off and disappear. He snorted at his own stupidity. Like he'd ever be able to escape, his father would find him; track him down wherever he ran too, and then…well he didn't want to think about what would happen then. Holland's mind took him back to the one time he had run away. Although even now he wasn't sure if that was what he'd done, or if he'd just been unable to stop pedaling. He'd been ten he remembered, and had been riding his bike up and down the sidewalk outside his house. He could remember stopping and gazing up at the house, the windows had been like empty dead eyes staring back at him, and he'd suddenly began to pedal away. However, instead of stopping at the street light outside Mr. and Mrs. Jamison's house and turning around to pedal back again, he'd just kept going. It had been about four hours later and he'd been about two miles outside of town, with tired and aching legs when he'd finally had to stop. A police patrol car had pulled up in front of him and a cop had gotten out. The cop had asked his name and smiled at him, telling him that lots of people were looking for him, and that his parents were both really worried about him. Holland could remember thinking the cop must have gotten that part wrong, and he'd said to him,

"You mean they're mad at me?"

The policeman had smiled at him again as he'd been putting his bike into the trunk of his patrol car and replied,

"Well maybe a little bit, but I'm sure they're more worried than anything son."

Holland could remember that he'd considered telling the policeman that he was wrong. That his parents never worried about him, but they sure got mad at him a lot, but then thought better of it. He'd remembered that that was one of the many secrets he had to keep. One of the dark secrets he had to hold inside himself, and so he'd just smiled up at the cop and had asked if he could put on the lights and siren on the drive home.

When they'd reached home his father had been waiting at the front door for them. Holland could remember standing next to the policeman on the doorstep as his father had apologised for the inconvenience he'd caused. The cop's hand had been warm on his shoulder. He had thought it was strange that unlike when his father touched him this touch was gentle, comforting and he'd felt bereft when the cop had removed his hand to ruffle his hair. He'd stood next to his father watching the policeman walk back to his car. His father's hand now resting on the same shoulder as the policeman's had. His father's fingers had dug painfully into his flesh, like talons. He'd obeyed his father when he'd whispered to him,

"Wave Holland…wave and smile."

So he had and the cop had waved and smiled back as he'd climbed into his car and driven away. All the while Holland had wanted to shout for him to,

"Please come back…please come back and take me with you!"

Holland shuddered as he thought about the punishment he'd received then. Three days spent cold and naked in the dark, locked in the cellar, his father visiting him periodically and always bringing his belt with him. He'd leant his lesson though, as his father had said he would, and he'd never run away again. That had been when he was ten, Holland didn't even want to begin to imagine what his punishment would be if he tried to run away now that he was 14, probably something a lot worse. He knew from experience that his father was good at thinking up punishments.

Glancing out from his hiding place Holland could see that darkness was falling, and the streetlights were switching themselves on. With a resigned sigh he knew he couldn't hide forever, and he picked up his backpack and crawled out from under the bleachers. Then he began to trudge home. He guessed that his father would be home from the office by now, and his mother would be well into her second bottle of vodka. He briefly wondered if his mother would try to defend him against his father, and then immediately dismissed the thought as ridiculous. After all his mother hated him. For as long as he could remember she'd rarely missed an opportunity to tell him that. Apparently he'd been an accident, a mistake that'd ruined her figure, ruined her life and given her stretch marks. As he thought of his mother his mind turned to his eighth birthday. He'd had a party; his father was very keen on keeping up appearances for everyone else. He'd been really, genuinely happy that day Holland could remember. It seemed that the happy days were so rare that they stood out in his mind like little gleaming beacons of light in a sea of darkness. He could remember he'd had a shiny new blue bike, the same one he'd taken his little excursion on two years later, and a big toy Millenium Falcon spaceship, and a Star Wars birthday cake with eight candles and his name on it. That night his mother had come to him while he lay in bed. He'd smelt the alcohol on her breath as she'd bent and kissed him on the forehead. He'd been surprised but happy, his mother had never tucked him in before or kissed him goodnight. Then she'd leant down further and whispered in his ear, her words slightly slurred,

"Happy birthday Holland…congratulations now you're old enough to take my place."

Straightening up she'd laughed and left, leaving him behind puzzled by what she'd meant. He'd soon found out though when about twenty minutes later, just as he was dropping off to sleep he'd heard his bedroom door opening again. He could remember blinking and squinting against the light that had flooded in from the hallway, and he'd watched as his father had entered his room. His face had been flushed and he'd had a strange, frightening look in his eyes.

Holland shivered form more than cold as he remembered that night, the first of many nocturnal visits. Visits that still happened several times a week. He briefly wondered, as he had on many occasions, what it was about him that was so bad that it made both his parents hate him. He wondered too what those signals were that his father told him he gave out. The ones that led his father on, and made him do those things to him.

As he paused on the sidewalk and gazed up at those same cold empty windows that he had on that summer's day four years ago, he almost wished he still had his little blue bike and could pedal away from here. Of course the bike was long gone, his father had thrown it away, another part of his punishment, and he'd never been allowed to have another one. Sighing Holland swiped the back of his hand over his tear-filled eyes, the growing fear in him threatening to overwhelm him. Instead he bit down on his lower lip, using the pain this caused to get a grip on his emotions. You never showed negative emotions outside of the house, you were always happy and content. Another of his father's rules. You must never allow the mask to slip, never allow any cracks to show in the façade of the All-American-Family that the Wagenbach's appeared to be to the outside world. If only the world knew what went on behind closed doors Holland thought briefly. If only they knew the monster that lurked under the mask of James Wagenbach, respected and successful lawyer and family man. Holland reckoned if they did know it would probably make most people want to puke.

His feet had taken him to the front door, and he knew his father was in there, in his study waiting for him. He could sense him like a malevolent presence that was chained to his soul. Maybe it won't be too bad Holland thought, maybe he won't be too mad. After all he'd been better for a couple of weeks now, not so cross all the time. Holland knew the reason for this it was the trip they were going to be taking next week. He'd been surprised when his father had announced to him that he'd rented a cabin up in the mountains so that he could take Holland fishing for the weekend. Holland still wasn't sure what it meant. His father had never expressed any desire to take him fishing before, but maybe it would be a good thing. Besides Holland had to admit he'd been kinda looking forward to it. A weekend in a cabin in the woods sounded a little exciting, a change from the norm. His father had even bought a home movie camera for the trip. So he could film the "…good times we'll be having together…" he'd told Holland with a rare smile.

So taking a deep breath and crossing his fingers he pushed open the front door and stepped into the house. He turned and closed the door behind him as quietly as he could and almost tiptoed across the hallway. He'd made it to the bottom of the stairs, had almost begun to believe he'd gotten away with it, when a deep voice called out from his father's study,

"Holland come here…I believe you have something to show me."

Pausing Holland felt his hand grip the banister so tightly his knuckles turned white and bloodless. Then he turned knowing he had to face his father, and he plastered an insincere smile on his face. His father liked him to smile for him, and Holland was well practiced at being able to curl his lips up into something passable that fulfilled his father's wishes. If Holland's smiles never quite made it as far as his eyes, well no one seemed to ever notice, and if they did they certainly didn't care enough to wonder why. So smile in place, and his stomach tying itself in knots while his heart pounded in his chest, he slowly entered his father's study and held out the damning brown envelope.


End file.
